The two teams backed off from the building; they had no choice but to await the pompiers. They had enough to attend to with the two prisoners on the ground. Neither was going anywhere in the near future but the need to monitor the one in handcuffs and to minister to his scorched partner distracted the detectives from what should have been an obvious threat: a third villain.
Peter had remained close to Deroche, in part to avoid being mistaken for one of the funeral home attackers. The flames had died down, if temporarily, and he stood partly in darkness, a few steps back from the two groupings of men. Deroche had his .45 in his right hand and was barking orders into the radio held in his left.
The third assailant, big-bellied, wearing blue jeans and a dark jacket, emerged from the shadows at Peter’s back. Peter sensed his presence and pivoted that way. The man held a pistol levelled at Peter but was in the process of swinging his aim towards Deroche, who himself had begun to turn instinctively. The man should have seen that his options were minimal. Certainly he was not about to single-handedly rescue his accomplices from the array of armed cops in the parking lot, all of whom had started to raise their guns in his direction.
But Peter, his thinking sharp, understood that the scene of pandemonium escalated the risk of a shootout to a critical level. Panic was in the air. The third assailant was committed.
And Peter understood that the next move had to be his.
The shooter remained fixed in position, heavy-footed and uncertain about his targets. The pistol wavered in his hand. Peter was positioned at a sideways angle to the man. He had his right hand in his pocket wrapped around the Taser, out of the line of sight of the gunman. The revolver was in his left pocket but he knew that the long barrel would catch if he drew it out too fast. He was guaranteed to lose the gunfight. There was an even better reason for avoiding the gun, tempting as it was to cut down this bastard on the spot. If Peter succeeded in killing the man, he knew that he would be stuck in Montreal for days, perhaps a week, if he, an unlicensed foreign police detective, used a firearm against a Canadian citizen, however unsavoury a specimen.
Sylvain Deroche torqued to his left to bring his .45 to bear and as he caught Peter’s intentions, he gave one of his patented smiles. In some maniacal way, he was enjoying himself.
Peter grimaced back.
He guessed at the fat man’s next movement, but he guessed correctly. The gunman took one measured step towards Peter, who understood that his attacker had formed some demented plan to grab a hostage. The fellow planted himself less than three feet away, the gun rising towards Peter’s left temple. In a second he would be in a position to shoot both Deroche and Cammon. With no idea where the on switch was, Peter fished in his right pocket for the electronic device. From the weight of the thing, he guessed that this was one of the less powerful units. He hoped that its features would resemble those on a gun and that he could find the safety and the trigger.
But he wasn’t sure and so he took the time to look down at the black Taser as he turned. He saw the safety switch and disengaged it. Now only six feet from the man, he raised the Taser and pulled the trigger. The device sparked and buzzed, launching two steel-barbed wires into the assailant’s chest. The cops later told Peter it was a perfect strike.
At once, the atmosphere in the back lot changed in a strange way. Movement stopped as everyone gawked at the man on the ground. The crackling fire seemed to quiet and the fire engine siren held back for an extra few seconds in the distance. Deroche’s mania, for once, subsided. The Quebec cops, who until now had ignored the British interloper, gazed at Peter with something he hadn’t felt for a long time: professional respect.
CHAPTER 13
The taxi driver happened to know the direct route to the freight depot at Trudeau Airport and Peter arrived earlier than he expected. Delivery vans and semi-trailers, transferring crates of all sizes to the rows of warehouses that fronted the airport tarmac, surrounded him. Two uniformed clerks manned the desk inside the main shipping centre, checking paperwork and periodically slamming ink stamps down on multiple forms. A dozen men and one woman were queued up ahead of him at the counter. The staff knew their business, understanding the deadlines the truckers and van drivers faced, and they moved the crowd through rapidly.
Peter got out his documentation for the coffin: black-and-yellow stripes rimmed the special shipping authorization. It, and the death certificate, burial transfer permits, and apostille certifying that the U.K. approved of the work done by the funeral parlour — Britain would not accept a body that was not fully embalmed — would get Carpenter home to his rest. A beefy man in khaki coveralls came out from the back to consult with one of the counter staff. The man made eye contact and waved Peter over behind the counter. Without comment or query, he led him through the flapping plastic strips that hung across the entryway, and into the heart of the warehouse.
“Which one?” the big man said.
“Carpenter. To the United Kingdom on AC870.”
“Yup. There he is, there.”
Off to the right, the broad doors of the warehouse stood wide open and Peter was surprised to see an Airbus 360 with a maple leaf on its tail fin sitting right there on the tarmac, fewer than a hundred yards away.
They walked to the far side of the cavernous building to a fenced-in storage area. Between the diamond spaces of the wire grill, Peter saw two coffins sitting on trestles. The warehouseman unlocked the door and they entered. Peter handed his papers to the fellow, who began to check them against a bundle of documents that had been taped to the lid of the first coffin. As Réjean Parrish had promised, the steel air tray had been sealed with tape and labelled “HUMAN REMAINS.” The man grunted with satisfaction. The papers were in order; one more problem off his hands.
“Hope the other one comes soon. The funeral director himself is signing off on that one. You a relative of . . . Mr. Carpenter? John Fitzgerald. Jesus. Echoes of Dallas.”
“No, I’m with Scotland Yard,” Peter responded, confident that this information would help to clear any last-minute concerns about his bona fides as companion to the corpse.
No beat was skipped.
“Thanks for coming early, Inspector. I recommend you stay and watch the tray go up the belt-loader. Ensures what we call chain of custody.”
“I’m used to the concept,” Peter stated drolly. Both men smiled, two pros at work.
“We do it over here now so as not to upset the passengers watching the bag belt from the boarding lounge. Some people get riled, especially the Chinese.”
Peter watched the loading from the doorway. The veteran warehouseman handed over most of the documents, after returning to the front office to obtain a last stamp. Peter wouldn’t have to be present when the coffin was unloaded at Heathrow or when the funeral people from London took possession. But he had decided to call Carpenter’s brother, or maybe the quiet Carole, when he arrived, to confirm that he had shepherded John Carpenter home, from loading to landing.
He settled into his first-class seat, took out Renaud’s Civil War tome, and placed it on the arm rest, along with a notebook and pen, in case he felt like starting his report to Bartleben. The flight attendant offered him a Montreal Gazette and a day-old Guardian; he had also snagged a week-old Sunday edition of the News of the World from the magazine rack. He was equipped for an easy flight, through most of which he would sleep, he hoped. He was exhausted.
All the news felt recycled from his earlier flight. Floods in Pakistan. A continuing vigil for the miners trapped in Chile. Vitriol over the planned Islamic Centre close to Ground Zero. And France had announced that gypsies weren’t welcome any longer. An advert in the Guardian suggested everyone pre-order Tony Blair’s autobiography; I’m not that retired, Peter reflected.
He took a drink of Perrier from his complimentary bottle. He missed his family and his dog and there was no reason to return to North America. His work was done. He
was no longer angry with Sir Stephen, though Peter’s role, as he predicted, had never been more than routine and bureaucratic. As for follow-up, until Greenwell was found there was little the Yard could do, and nothing for Peter himself. He perhaps owed more to the murdered man, but Greenwell remained the obvious suspect and the key. Far away from Montreal, Peter could do little more to aid the Canadian authorities.
Ruminating further, and without trying for any epiphanies, he noted the range of motives of the many players in this investigation. Nicola Hilfgott had turned manic about three letters from a century and a half ago, because of oblique references to Quebec revolutionaries. Pascal implied that the separatist community shared her interest in the letters, though from the reverse angle. The obvious reason for the assault was the envelope full of cash, and here Alice Nahri and Leander Greenwell topped the suspect list. Someone at the Yard would have to sort out the killer from the merely greedy.
Peter’s regret focused on the victim. Young Carpenter had been displaced in all this muddle of self-serving agendas. There was little Peter could do about it. Bartleben had never intended to give Peter the authority necessary to clean up the mess.
The girl did make it interesting. If Peter were to stay on the case, he would hunt her down before attempting anything else. So far, she was a ghost, yet she must have been present, at least nearby, when Carpenter perished. Or was there ever a girl? Hilfgott, Deroche, and Renaud doubted it. Even Greenwell, in his interview with Deroche, hadn’t mentioned her.
The flight attendant nudged his arm. Peter awoke from his reverie to her smile. She held out a yellow note folded in two.
“Inspector Cammon?” she whispered. “There was a call from London at the Montreal terminal. We didn’t have a chance to deliver it to you in the departure lounge. I’m sorry.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer. “From a Deputy Commissioner Bartleben?”
Peter took the note and the woman watched his face as he read: “Important news. Girl found in D.C. Essential you contact before departing Montreal. Sir Stephen.”
As he reached the last bit, the hovering attendant said, “We apologize for not getting it to you in time. You can make a call using the seat phone.” She pointed to the beige telephone implanted in his chair.
Peter smiled and waved off the woman to show that all was forgiven. He picked up the phone but took a moment to think before he dialled. Why was Bartleben still calling himself deputy commissioner? Had Alice Nahri been found dead or alive? No use speculating, he reasoned, yet the tone of the message was clear: Bartleben wanted him to stay in Montreal. Peter read the instructions on the phone and punched in the numbers for London. It would be about 1 a.m. there and Bartleben should be at home with his wife.
“Peter, is that you?” Bartleben said, having picked up the receiver on the first ring. Does the man ever sleep?
“I’m afraid I’m calling from the plane.” Peter said. “Only got your message just now. This is an unsecured line.”
Stephen’s tone remained sanguine. “I see. You understand that the girl is dead?”
“No, I don’t know that.” The phone irritated Peter. The connection, though clear enough, felt remote and tenuous. Bartleben seemed uncomfortable, too. “How did she die?” Peter asked. “Tell me as much as you can. Let’s not worry too much about the secure connection.”
“All right. But no names, please. She committed suicide. Drowned in the Anacostia River three nights ago. That’s in Washington . . .”
“I know where it is.” Peter knew the area from his time at Quantico.
“We found the car.”
“The rental?” Peter said.
“Yes. Our man’s rental. Don’t know how she managed to get it across the Canadian border. Rental agreements don’t usually allow . . .”
“Stephen, did they find the Sat Nav?”
“I have no idea.” Peter could tell that Stephen was impatient and ready to take offence: somehow it was Peter’s fault that the message had missed him on the ground, and now his man was heading in the wrong direction.
“None of the documents we discussed were in the vehicle,” Stephen stated.
“The Booth letters.”
Peter felt Stephen recoil; he never wanted to be explicit. “Is that what we call them now?”
“What agencies are involved?” Peter said.
“The Washington Metro force, Maryland State Police and the U.S. Parkway Police, since the car was spotted at one point on the Anacostia Freeway.”
“How about our friends at Quantico?” Peter asked, coding for the FBI. “And what about the Big One?” The Big One was Homeland Security.
“Not yet. You know, Peter, I still see no national security / terrorism dimensions to this case. Do you?” There was a wistfulness in his voice.
Peter avoided the question, although he barely suppressed his scorn. From the outset, Bartleben had two bugbears: the potential political scandal generated by an intemperate consul general over in the colonies; and a cock-up that might draw in the Americans and turn this into a terrorism threat. Maybe I’m tired, Peter thought, or I have an overdeveloped sense of irony. For he knew one small fact that Sir Stephen did not. No, there wasn’t a whiff of terrorism in any of this but according to a recent news report, the American security agency was about to build a massive headquarters complex in the neighbourhood of Anacostia, D.C., right by the river. Alice Nahri had drowned in the new backyard of Homeland Security.
“Tell me the story, Stephen.”
Bartleben launched into the official account. “It’s incomplete but three days ago the car was found in the parking area of a yacht club on the edge of the Anacostia River. The Anacostia is the eastern branch of the Potomac and the spot lies only three or four miles from the White House. Did you know they sail yachts in the heart of Washington?”
“What condition was the car in?” Peter asked, ignoring the rhetorical question. He hoped to learn how much damage the hit-and-run had caused to the front of the Ford. That would tell him a lot about the targeting of John Carpenter.
“Don’t know. The vehicle sat there for three or four days, Metro Police estimate. The body was discovered in the river three days back. Almost simultaneously, someone visiting the yacht club noticed the Canadian plates and called it in. The authorities checked the outstanding Canadian warrant and a match was made on the tags.”
“So, the body washed up after only two or three days?” Peter said.
“Seems so. Something about the tides, they told me. They’re sending a report via our embassy in Washington.”
They had already said too much on a public connection, although Peter had never heard of anyone hacking a phone call from an airplane. Perhaps the News of the World knew how it was done.
There was a weighty pause on the line.
“Well, Peter, can you turn around and go back to D.C.?”
Peter had known that the question was coming. He also knew that he had the advantage and could do exactly what he wanted. For these reasons, he did not immediately respond. Yet his thinking remained conflicted. Bartleben and everyone else had studiously ignored John Carpenter and the pain inflicted on his family. It seemed that Peter Cammon, who had the narrowest role in this tragedy, was the one who cared most about the victim.
“Stephen, let me get Carpenter home and dry, then I’ll see how I feel about it. The girl will keep.”
Bartleben had to be content with that much. Peter hadn’t sneered at the idea. They embarked on one of their long mutual silences and it did not matter that the office was paying for every minute of the call. Peter knew his old colleague well. Bartleben was asking him to shepherd a second body across the Pond and the bizarreness of his initial assignment had just been doubled. Peter refused to acknowledge this farce, because for him it was no longer farcical. The case was turning ugly. He told himself defensively, almost saying it out loud, that he
would do exactly what he pleased, to hell with London. There was more to this than a drowning suicide. A young man, ruined, lay in a metal box in the airplane hold below and now the waterlogged corpse of a girl sat in a morgue somewhere, likely headed to a grave in a potter’s field. Bartleben waited. The drone of the airplane engines seemed to raise the tension of their standoff.
Peter hung up without saying goodbye and looked at his watch; they were scheduled to land in two and a half hours. He turned to the rumpled copy of the News of the World, a paper he seldom bothered with, blazoned with pictures of a cricket bribery sting on its front page. At least three members of the national cricket team from Pakistan stood accused of taking bribes to throw games. The story amplified what Frank Counter had told him, that the News had set up a sting in a Mayfair hotel, capturing on film and audio the payment of large amounts of boodle to three rising cricket stars. The exposé charted entrenched corruption in what was the national obsession of several countries. The national pride of Pakistan had been sullied, so said its prime minister. Candid photos showed players partying with sweet young things, while other shots displayed the grim faces of the named sinners. Careers had already been ruined.
Counter had mentioned that John Carpenter had worked on the file. Peter searched for any explicit reference to Scotland Yard involvement, and there it was: the bribes had been dispensed in London, and the Yard conceded that it had no choice but to press the investigation. He had no doubt that cautions had already been issued in anticipation of heavy charges. Bad luck for Frank Counter, Peter thought. He wondered how close Carpenter had been to the cricket dossier.
He beckoned to the flight attendant and asked her if it was permissible to use his BlackBerry to send an email to his wife. Ever since the crash of Swissair 111 a few years ago off the coast of Nova Scotia, Peter had been wary of in-cabin electronics when he flew. Early reports had suggested that glitches in the aircraft’s entertainment system had caused a fire, which had ultimately brought down the plane. Peter was never sure if this story was true but new technology made him nervous. The attendant assured him that it was quite safe to send emails.
The Drowned Man Page 14